Meeting the Junkie
by LondonBelow
Summary: 21yearold Mark lands himself in jail, where he meets Roger.


**I haven't ever been to jail, so everything in this story is based on what I've heard from people who have been to jail. If it's inaccurate, I apologize.  
****  
Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns just about everything in this story. Roger sings a Beatles song, "We Can Work it Out"; Douglas Adams is property of himself (or was)**

When they threw Mark into the cell, it had only one other occupant: he was pale, stretched out on the floor, breathing deeply, his feet bare though a pair of boots rested near his hand. A black T-shit twisted around his chest, baring his midriff and a trail of dark blond hair disappearing under tattered jeans. He seemed completely unaware and young, younger than Mark.

Mark skirted the man as best he could, wedged himself into a corner of the cell and crouched on the floor. In the corner was a low wall which, Mark guessed, had a toilet behind it. The walls had been graffitied copiously. There was a bench, also, and nothing more. Nothing could be used as a weapon, save the harsh, false light bouncing off the metal of the floor, walls and bars.

Mark hugged himself and trembled so hard his glasses slipped to the end of his nose. He bit back a whimper. This was not what he had wanted. He had not thought in terms of laws, except knowing that his actions were against the law. Prison had never been a reality to Mark. Why should it be? He was a good Jewish boy from the suburbs. The worst thing he had ever done was forget to wear his tzitzit to yeshiva.

The man lying on the cell floor moaned and wriggled, then settled, once more quiet and still.

Nibbling his lip, Mark barely restrained tears.

---

"Hey."

Someone kicked Mark's shoe. He made his breathing shallow, squeezed his eyes shut and, as he always did with bullies, reminded himself that ignoring people like this made them go away. He had ignored this one so far, not looking up, even stopping his glances at the junkie-boy, when the bully was tossed into the holding cell.

"I said, 'Hey'," repeated the faceless voice. Mark's shoe was given another, harder kick, sending him shaking with fear. Mark had never been in prison before. They said--he could not name 'them', as 'they' were not specific people but only essences, moments of time in which an average boy told a joke to perpetuate the stereotypes--they said boys like Mark were "fresh meat" in prison. They said quiet boys, boys who couldn't or wouldn't defend themselves, were raped bloody.

"Hey!" The bully kicked Mark's shin sharply, earning himself a yowl before Mark clamped his mouth shut. Fat, childish tears rolled down Mark's cheeks. "Hey--"

"Oh, hey yourself." They were the first words Mark had heard from the junkie-boy all evening, and nothing had ever sounded sweeter than that lazily aggressive tone. "Whadd'you want from 'im, anyway?"

"Huh?"

"I said, 'What do you want from him?'" the junkie-boy repeated, enunciating each word. He had moved from the floor to the bench and laced his boots onto his feet, apparently confused by his lack of socks.

"Fuckin' _tweak_!"

"He's clean, dumbass."

The bully, who clearly needed a hit, began pacing the room angrily. He shouted, spun, and occasionally hit the walls. Mark retreated further into his corner. He had never before seen a drug user go into withdrawal, never been beaten up, and never wanted to experience either. The junkie-boy remained on the bench, apparently unaware of anything else. On closer inspection, however, Mark saw that the junkie-boy was aware. He was watching closely, something serpentine in the flickering of his green eyes and the smile playing at the corners of his lips.

It took under five minutes for the bully to decide to seek drugs from the junkie-boy. Later, Mark would be unable to piece together what had happened. He knew that one moment the bully had his hands on the junkie, who was smiling a terrifying smile, and then with no action between the two sequences the bully was reeling around the cell, wailing, clutching his nose as blood wept out between his fingers. The junkie was sitting on the bench, wearing that smile.

For a long while, more than ten seconds, which in reality can last a lifetime, the bully staggered around the cell, then he decided to take his pain out on Mark. Mark and the junkie-boy noticed this at the same time. The junkie-boy sat up a little, twitching his fingers, while Mark tried to disappear. When the bully reached for Mark, the junkie shot up.

"Don't touch him," he warned, only seconds before Mark felt a sharp tug and rose clumsily to his feet, the bully's hand twisted into his shirt. "Get off!"

Mark blinked. The junkie was strangling the bully. He blinked again. He was alone in the corner. The junkie was in the opposite corner, his hand cradled to his chest. A loud smacking sound hung in the air. "Wh-what…" Mark could not form a question.

"Am I bleeding?" the junkie asked.

"What?"

Sharply, he repeated, "Am I bleeding?"

Mark shook his head. He could see no blood, though there was some on his clothes--the bully's. "Don't touch that," the junkie warned. "Listen to me. Don't touch his blood. When you get out of here you need to throw away those clothes. In the meantime, just don't touch it."

"Why?" Mark asked. His fingers itched to touch the blood. He wanted to know if it would feel different from other blood, if it would send little electric shocks into his fingers.

Four letters had Mark all but sitting on his hands: "AIDS. Good. You should be scared." He offered his hand. "I'm Roger."

"Mark," said Mark. His hand trembled, but the junkie only closed his fingers firmly around Mark's and gave his hand a formal shake. "Are you… are you in here because…"

"Yeah," Roger gave his curt reply with a toss of his head. "And you? You look a little too society. A little too young."

Mark blushed. He certainly felt that way. "Vandalism," he said. To Roger's raised eyebrows, he explained, "I was… goaded."

Roger nodded solemnly. "They'll probably just give you warning. You're a kid, you've got no priors."

"How can you tell?" Mark asked, inviting Roger to share in a joke at his expense. "Nah, no priors. I'm… I'm not a kid, though. I'm an adult. I'm twenty-one."

He knew how pathetic the words sounded, his tone contradictory to the words, trembling like a child. The repetition only served to underline Mark's naiveté. "Big man," Roger said, laughing a laugh that was only an extra breathiness to his tone.

Mark groaned. "And my parents're gonna kill me," he murmured. "They'll kick me out for this… I'll have to leave college…" The enormity of it was too much, and it just was not fair. Mark had done everything right. He had always been good. He had worked hard, earned top marks, studied, and gotten into a good school. Now it would all disappear because a group of friends had given him a few beers, pressed a can of spray paint into his hands and called him a pussy. It just wasn't fair.

Roger listen to this, rubbed Mark's back through a series of gulping sobs, then without a second thought gave his phone number and told Mark that he could drop by if he needed.

---

Mark found Roger considerably less terrifying as a person than he had been as a junkie, stretched out and coming down on the cell floor. But it had been well over an hour now, and the boys were sitting together on the bench, Roger's sudden, childish vivacity very attractive to Mark. "Ok, ok, I got one," he said. "Here we go. Okay. This one's good for you. Why did the skeleton skip his prom?"

Mark rolled his eyes. If he had learned anything in the past hour, it was that Roger had either a very good sense of humor or a very bad one. He laughed at everything. "Why?" Mark groaned, anticipating a truly awful answer.

"Because he had no_body_ to go with!" Roger crowed, then laughed, letting the laugh shake his entire body. Mark's laughter was more than anything expressive of his desire to join in Roger's happiness. "Okay, your turn."

"Um…" Mark pushed his glasses up on his nose. He didn't know as many jokes as Roger, nor did he laugh as long or as hard, but Roger appreciated each of Mark's jokes, a gratifying experience. "Actually… I kind of need to…" Mark danced a little, wriggling around on the bench.

"You need to…?" Roger repeated, leaning towards Mark and imitating his dance.

"Y'know," Mark said. "The toilet."

"Oh! So go."

Mark blushed. "Is there any way you could, um…" He couldn't bring himself to say "plug your ears," but that was what he truly wanted.

For a moment, Roger considered, then he said, "I know what to do. Just go."

"Okay."

Mark stepped behind the divide, feeling that he had less privacy now than he had previously. He unbuttoned his jeans and stood for a moment, unable to move. Suddenly from the cell came a blast of singing: "Try to see it my way… do I have to keep on talking 'til I can't go on? When you see it your way, run the risk of knowing that our love may soon be gone…" As Roger sang, he kept the beat against his knees.

Roger only stopped singing when Mark emerged from the cubicle, sat beside him on the bench and muttered, "Thank you." Then Roger quieted, and Mark said, "You know, you could be a singer. You have a great voice."

Roger blushed. "Thanks," he said. "I used to be with a band; vocals and guitar."

Mark blushed as though he should have known that already. "Can I ask you something?" When Roger nodded, Mark took a deep breath and said, "Why did you fight for me?"

"I despise bullies." Something in the sudden harshness of Roger's tone told Mark not to inquire further. That same harshness drew him, but for once he kept his mouth shut.

---

Roger and Mark talked well into the morning. It had been four hours when they reached Douglas Adams. "Don't get me started," Mark said. "I'll go on for hours."

A grin peeped onto Roger's face. "They took my stuff," he said, "but I _had_ a towel." The boys laughed. "When the first book came out…" Roger shook his head, laughing at the memory. Mark noticed that laughing and smiling were very separate gestures for Roger. He laughed without smiling, and smiled without laughter, unlike most people whose laughter only extended their smiles. "… I was eight, maybe nine, got in so much trouble. 'Roger! Stop reading at the table!'" he imitated.

Mark laughed, mentally calculating Roger's age. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. "Rog--"

"Davis!" the cops had appeared again, accompanied by a tall man Mark had to hope was not their new cellmate. "You're out. Come on."

"Hey, Col," Roger said.

The stranger, who Mark would later learn was Thomas Collins, said, "Hey, Roger. I hope you know how bad you fucked up."

Roger nodded. "Sorry," he said. "'Bye, Mark."

Mark waved. As Roger rose and headed for the open cell door, Mark called, "Roger, I--" the words slurred with the speed of his speech, then died in his throat. "It's my birthday," he whispered. "Thanks for company."

Roger smiled. "You're welcome, man," he said. "Happy birthday." As Roger and Collins retreated towards the front of the station, Mark heard Roger saying, "He's really cool. His name's Mark--"

"What is it with you, Rog?" Collins interrupted. "You got two friends in the world, and after one night in prison--"

"Jail!"

Then Mark could hear nothing more. He closed his eyes and waited for his parents to arrive.

The End!

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